This Little Piggy (11 page)

They looked at her, their faces hostile. “You’re the bird that was in the union office the other day,” one of the men said.

“That’s right. I just wondered what the mood of the men is, at the moment.”

“We’re fine,” said the same man. He nodded in the direction of the pit. “See that bus? There were about five or six scabs on it. Know how many men work here, on a normal day? Two hundred. Just remember that, pet. There are hundreds of us still out on strike and we’ll keep it up until we win. That lot…” he jabbed a finger towards the colliery. “… they’re pathetic. They’ll be begging us to come back, in a week or two. You just watch.”

When Clare went into the newsagent’s, Jai had an envelope for her.

“From your mining friend,” he said, as she headed up the stairs to the office. The room felt claustrophobic and already too warm, even though it wasn’t yet eight-thirty. It would only get more stifling as the day went on. Clare had a go at opening the little window, brushing away the cobwebs and dead flies that had accumulated along the sill and behind the plastic blinds. It wouldn’t budge.

She tore open the envelope. It was a ticket to a benefit that evening at the miners’ welfare club, to raise money for trips out over the school holidays. Clare fingered the ticket. It just said:
Benefit Night for the Miners’ Families. £3 Waged, £2 Unwaged.
There was no note with it, but she knew this was Finn giving her an ‘in’. She’d mentioned to him the other day that she particularly wanted to do something about the miners’ wives and families. This would be a great start. Good job she’d stayed out of trouble on the picket line. She pushed slips of typing and carbon paper into her typewriter and began:
Striking miners remained upbeat on the picket lines today as the bitter dispute continued well into its fifth month. Defiant men told the
Post
that they were in no mood to give up in spite of the handful of strike-breakers who were bussed into the pit…

Clare followed it up with a feature-length piece marking eight days since baby Jamie’s death, detailing how the police were no further forward and families on Sweetmeadows were still living in fear of a psychotic killer. At the end of the working day, though, Clare had around half an hour spare before heading along to the miners’ benefit. She’d planned it that way. She had a carrier bag full of sweets, pens and comics for Amy, seeing as it was the start of the school summer holidays. She made sure to scurry away before Joe or anyone else from the office called to persuade her out to the pub: she didn’t want questions asked, either about the miners’ benefit or why she’d felt compelled to put together a bag of treats for a kid she barely knew.

As Clare approached the door to Amy’s flat, she could hear music. Amy was singing along, loud and unabashed, to Cyndi Lauper’s
Time After Time
. Clare grinned as she rapped on the knocker and the singing stopped abruptly. The dog began his automatic barking. Amy didn’t come to the door. Clare lingered for a moment or two, then knocked again. She could hear the dog snuffling just on the other side of the door. She leaned towards the letterbox and spoke into it. “Amy, it’s Clare. Are you okay?”

The door opened immediately and Amy squeezed herself out of it, pushing the dog back inside.

Clare thought Amy looked even more scruffy than usual. Her hair was even more dishevelled and she’d obviously been picking at some scabs on her arms.

“Course I am, why?” Amy’s gaze travelled to the carrier bag, with a kid’s sixth sense that there was something in it for her. “You doing a story tonight?”

“Not here, but I thought I’d bring you this.”

Clare held out the bag and Amy grabbed it and pushed her face inside. “Wow. Thanks!” She pulled out a handful of sweets and the copy of
Smash Hits.
“No way!”

“I didn’t know if you like any of those bands. It’s got George Michael in it and…”

“I like everyone, just about,” said Amy, riffling through the rest of the bag. “The charts is my favourite thing. This is so brilliant. What’s it for?”

“It was your last day at school today, right?”

Amy paused. “Oh. Yeah, that’s right.”

“You didn’t go to school today, did you?” Clare asked.

Amy smiled and shrugged. “Not really.”

“Not at all?”

Amy shook her head. “Thanks for this though. Can we go get chips or something?”

Clare glanced at the door. “Is your mum not around?” She resisted the word ‘again’.

The girl unwrapped a tube of sticky, melting Rolos. “Can you keep a secret?”

“That depends what it is, Amy.”

“You have to promise or I can’t tell you.”

Clare promised, knowing she shouldn’t.

“She didn’t come home last night.”

“Your mum?” Clare’s stomach clenched. “She was away all night? Is that why you didn’t go to school?”

“I never woke up in time.”

“Right.” Clare felt out of her depth. “So have you had, I don’t know, breakfast and lunch and stuff?”

“I had Sugar Puffs. We never had any milk though.”

“Dry cereal, that’s all?” Clare sighed. “Okay, let’s go get something right now. And Amy, your mum. Do you know where she is?”

Amy followed Clare down the stone steps and across the bare courtyard that fronted the blocks of flats. “No. But she’ll turn up tonight, probably. She always comes back in the end.”

“Always?” Clare repeated.

There were groups of kids hanging about. Even the idea of a killer roaming around wouldn’t stop them from playing outside on the first evening of the school holidays. And there had to be safety in numbers, although Clare noticed that a couple of mums were sitting on a wall, smoking and chatting but keeping a casual eye on the children. Parents’ faces kept appearing at the windows and glancing out, in a way that wouldn’t have happened before Jamie died. Amy linked arms with Clare as they walked past the others, showing her off.

Clare got into the driver’s side of the Mini and pushed open the passenger door for Amy. “Are you saying she does this quite often? Goes away and leaves you on your own?”

Amy put a grimy finger to her lips. “You promised not to tell anyone, remember?”

“I did.” And I’m regretting it, Clare thought. “But you know she shouldn’t be doing that, don’t you? You’re too young to be on your own all night.”

“I’m fine. And I’ve got Max.”

“Who’s Max?”

“My dog, who’d you think? He’d take care of any burglars.”

“Hmm. By slobbering them to death, I suppose. But where does your mum go?”

“I don’t know, do I? Out with her boyfriends and stuff. I told you, I’m okay. Only usually she leaves me some money and this time she forgot.”

Clare watched, finding herself unable to eat, as Amy tucked away her sausages, chips and gravy, all slathered in salt, vinegar and ketchup. “Look, I have to go somewhere for work. I can come by later on to make sure you’re all right.”

Amy shook her head, quickly. “Don’t do that. If me mam’s back she’ll kill me for telling on her.”

“But what if she isn’t back?”

“She will be, honest.”

Reluctantly, Clare left Amy back at the flats and drove to the miners’ social club. She felt slightly sick. She’d just played a part in leaving a little girl alone in her home, with only a half-feral-looking dog for company, on one of the worst estates in the district, where only a week ago a baby had been brutally killed. And where, if she was to be believed, the same little girl was the only one to have seen the killer or killers in action. Clare pulled on the handbrake, checked her reflection in the car mirror and decided to give the benefit event no more than an hour. If anything happened to Amy, she’d never forgive herself.

The woman on the door of the social club looked Clare up and down, as if she was trying to find a reason not to let her in. Clare waited, shifting from foot to foot.

“Finn McKenna gave me the ticket,” she said, after a minute or two. “I’m here to write something about the benefit, for the
Post
.”

“Write what sort of thing?” The woman didn’t look impressed. “The
Post
’s no friend of the miners, that much we know.”

“I can’t help what the editor writes,” Clare said, trying to look past her into the function room, to see if McKenna was around. “But personally I’m on your side. I want to write something positive. That’s why Finn gave me the ticket.”

The woman said nothing, but turned to the couple standing behind Clare. She took that as an agreement that she could go in. The room was dark, thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of beer. Someone was operating a small portable disco, with a few coloured lights flashing half-heartedly on and off, but no one was dancing. Kids were running around, chasing each other in and out of the tables and sliding across the polished floor. Clare couldn’t see Finn McKenna anywhere. She walked up to a long table where two women were pulling cling film away from paper plates, heavy with sausage rolls, pork pies cut into sections, chunks of cheese speared with cocktail onions and homemade cakes. She introduced herself and noticed how people’s faces seemed to close down.

“I want to write about how people like you are trying to keep things together,” Clare said. One of the women grunted and kept unwrapping food, but the other nodded. “Everything’s a help. Tonight is to raise money to take the kids on some days out over the summer.”

Clare started making notes. She found her way around the organisers and chatted to some mums and kids. She listened to the start of the set by a local band, singing local folk songs and the old songs that had been reworked for the strike:
Which Side Are You On? We Are Women, We Are Strong.
When no one was watching, she slipped some money into the collection buckets.

The hour passed quickly. Clare was heading for the door with a sheaf of good quotes, when she spotted Finn in the lobby. She waved at him.

“You came. Thanks. Let me get you a drink,” he said, putting a hand on her arm to steer her back towards the bar. He smelled of a fresh, lemony aftershave and his hand, with its strong fingers, felt cool on her slightly clammy arm.

“I’m just going. Sorry.” Clare held up her notebook. “But it’s been great. Everyone’s been really helpful. I should be able to get a good piece out of it.”

“Come on, one drink.” McKenna’s hand didn’t move. “It’s Friday night.” He had a camera on a strap round his neck and he nodded down at it. “Promised I’d take some snaps.”

Clare moved to the side a little and made an apologetic smile. “I really have to go.”

“Hey, Finn.” The woman taking the tickets stood up. “There was a lass in here a few minutes ago, looking for you.”

“That was me,” said Clare.

“No,” the woman said. “Another one. Someone called Jackie?”

Finn’s expression was hard to read but Clare sensed he wasn’t pleased. “Jackie? You sure?”

“Aye. I sent her to your mother’s house.”

“Damnit.” Finn turned to Clare. “I need to go and sort something out, but I’ll be back. Wait for me.”

Clare smiled and sidled past him towards the door. “I’m sorry. I have to be somewhere.” She pushed open the door and breathed in the warm evening air and the faint, beery smells that drifted out of the building. She turned back for a moment. “Hope you sort things out. I’ll let you know when the piece is going in the paper. Thanks for the ticket.”

In the car, Clare wondered, briefly, why she hadn’t quizzed Finn further on his personal life. It could have made a decent line, particularly if his girlfriend had an interesting job or was supporting him through the strike. Instead, she’d only asked if he was married and when he’d said no, she hadn’t pressed him further. With a warm rush of embarrassment, she remembered that at that point the conversation had got a little flirty in tone. Truth was, he was very attractive. She didn’t want to feel anything for him, but there it was. She worked hard at pushing Finn McKenna out of her thoughts as she drove, as fast as she could get away with, towards the Sweetmeadows estate.

Clare hadn’t really worked out exactly what was going to happen when she went back to check up on Amy. She’d just have to play it by ear. Clutching a couple of the sugary cakes from the social club, wrapped in a paper napkin, Clare ran up the steps and tapped on the door of Amy’s flat. It was Tina who answered the door. She stared at Clare.

“What is it?”

Clare opened and closed her mouth. Then she said, “I’m so sorry to bother you at this time of night, Tina. I was chatting to Amy earlier on and I think I might’ve left my notebook here?”

“You came in here?”

“No, I was just talking to Amy at the door.” Clare didn’t want to drop the girl in trouble with her mother. “I thought she might’ve picked it up.”

Tina looked back over her shoulder for a second, then shook her head. “Don’t think so.”

“Oh, okay. Maybe I’ve dropped it somewhere. Sorry to have disturbed.” Clare walked backwards along the balcony, then turned and almost ran back down the steps. She threw herself into her car and sat back in the driver’s seat, placing the backs of her hands on her hot face to try to cool it down. Tina must have thought she was a complete flake.

As Clare headed home, her embarrassment gave way to something else. In part, relief: Amy’s mother was back home and the child was no longer in the flat on her own. But there was something else that she was trying to ignore. Vaguely, and without really articulating in her head how it would happen, Clare had pictured herself rescuing Amy. Clare didn’t need to root around inside her brain to find what was compelling her to meddle in Amy’s life; she knew exactly what she was trying to replace in her own. But it turned out she wasn’t needed. And that was a good thing, for everyone. Though, as she put the key into the door at home, kicking aside the papers on the mat, she couldn’t shake the feeling of flat, overwhelming disappointment.

Saturday 21st July
These days, Clare didn’t like weekends and was keen to try to fill them up with things that would keep her out of the flat. She always woke too early, for a start, around five-thirty in the morning, sometimes even earlier. So she showered and dressed as if she was going to work, then drove into the office. The newsagent’s shop had just opened and Jai was putting the last of his morning papers out.